


falling in love with a god is not a death sentence;

by dykeula



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apocalypse, Infection, It's not fun, Jon and Martin do self quarantine, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, Tenderness, Zombies, good mental health is nowhere to be found during the apocalypse, happy-ish, post 160, this has a happy ending though i'm not that cruel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeula/pseuds/dykeula
Summary: “Falling in love with a god is not a death sentence. The story is only a tragedy if the god loves you back.”—Nathaniel Orion G. K.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 26
Kudos: 55





	1. Stage 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oathofsilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oathofsilence/gifts).



> I had this idea stuck in my head for days and I was wrestling with myself on whether it would be best to write it during *these* times, but then my bff Leon, who is an awful enabler, went "hey why don't you write it for me as a birthday present?" So, there we go. I know your birthday isn't until Saturday, but let's ignore that.  
> I'm obviously still writing my sex shop au story, I just *had* to put this on paper first. I was possessed by Jonny Sims spirit, telling me to write angst or die. After, I swear I will go back to happy banter and dumb dildo jokes.  
> And listen, I know how this sounds, but I would really advise you, uh. *read* the warnings and also take notice of the ones not there. You know.  
> TW for this chapter: Elias' smug ass, Zombies, slight gore?, talk of murder, and a really ill-advised emergency op. Just the general Zombie Apocalypse TWs.

They find Jonah Magnus on a cold Wednesday evening, sitting atop – he wishes he could say the Watcher’s Crown, wishes he could say they got that far, almost had him, but no. What he ends up sitting at is a red-crested chair. In… In someone’s kitchen.

He looks peaceful as ever, doesn’t even look up from his book. The bastard doesn’t even have the courtesy to look surprised, but then again, that would have been a lie, as well. Jon had felt him ever since they’d reached the city, maybe even before that. Like there’s a pull of a red string, attached to his neck, leading him on like a goddamn dog on a leash. That’s all he is, now. That’s all he’s reduced to.

Even now, after what he knows, what he _did_ , the both of them, he still. He still feels the familiar urge in his body, that desire to serve. He’s an Avatar of the Beholding first and foremost yes, but Elias had shaped him as close to his image as he had managed, molecule by molecule. He’d taken some part of Jon for himself, and only for himself. Jon feels like he’s being split in two like no part of his being’s his anymore. That fact should hurt more than it does. Sometimes, it’s convenient to be so closely interlinked with another being – especially one you plan to kill. Like a navigation system for murder.

“Hello, Jon,” the bastard has the audacity to say with the utmost boredom. Like this isn’t an ambush. Elias sighs. “What took you so long?”

The knife in Jon’s hand feels heavy and yet too light. Part of him wants to throw it aside and crawl on his hands and knees, like the animal he is, towards his master. Wants to put his hands over that slender neck and press down hard enough he can see bruises forming. Jon, the one that’s by now an instrument of fear itself, wants to pull Elias’ jugular out with his teeth, knowing damn well it would only inconvenience him slightly. Just to feel that wet muscle on his tongue, to have something to sink his teeth into. There’s no telling whether Jonah would possess _him_ if he had to. He walks closer slowly.

The other Jon, the human one, feels suspicion rise in his throat. This is too easy.

“You,” he growls out. He’s having trouble forming words right now.

“I know,” Elias supplies, almost smug. “I know how it must feel for you right now – to be so close to your goal. Your revenge. I can emphasize. But if you could just… Just wait ten seconds-“ There’s a commotion outside. The sound of a door being physically ripped open with inhumane strength. “Ah, _there_ we go.”

Jon is… He’s confused. In front of him lies Elias, in all his smug glory, but behind him… Behind him, he can feel fear sprouting hot and heavy like weeds in a garden. A thick and pungent smell fills the air, one he knows is blood. There’s the sound of bullets flying over screams and bloodshed. Jon doesn’t know whose blood, but he can damn well tell whose fear it is.

Basira, Daisy. Martin. This is an ambush, a bloody decoy. Jon turns around wildly. “What-“

“Have you seen some of fear’s co-creations yet? They’re honestly quite beautiful,” Elias winces slightly. “Well, for the most part. I must admit I find some of them a little … too on the nose. Still, a collaboration of The Slaughter, The Corruption and The Flesh had been foreseeable. It was only a matter of time – and opportunity. Old-fashioned phobias are the easiest. After all,” Elias snickers. Someone Jon can identify as Daisy is yelling outside, “who doesn’t love zombies? Kinemortophobia is what it’s called. Uninspired maybe, but it gets the job done.”

“What…”

The fear is so strong, so central, he can almost taste it on his tongue from this close. Part of Jon wants to walk back out there and put himself in the middle of it, surround him in it like the eye of a storm. Wants to open his mouth and just drink, lost in it.

Elias makes to stand up, dusting non-existent dirt off his expensively tailored suit. He looks grotesque standing in front of Jon, a shadow of the man he’s used to be, looking acutely like the definition of feral. He’s even stopped shaving his beard (because he couldn’t trust himself with the weight of a blade so close to his neck, not anymore) (Martin used to it for him, but he couldn’t rely on him all the time, he shouldn’t).

(Martin)

“What…,” Jon’s tongue feels heavy, like he can’t quite form the words. He has to, though. “What’s happening?”

Elias just sighs as if Jon is asking the wrong questions. “You know, I miscalculated. I thought I’d successfully eroded the humanity out of you, every last piece. But I was wrong. I realized that while watching you while watching all of you. Plotting your little suicide mission, knowing all the while it would fail.”

“I,” Jon doesn’t know what to say. He thinks he knows where this is going, and he dreads it. “I don’t understand.”

“I forgot to factor in one last part of your humanity, one little bastion holding in the flood. Let’s say I even underestimated it. It’s external. Something you’ve been dependant on for quite a while, for even longer than you’ve realized.” There’s a sharp pain in Jon’s brain, like an ice pick. It feels like worry, like dread. He knows where this is going, he knows… He has to turn back.

“What did you do?” Jon asks, breathless. Inside his head, his mind is screaming one name repeatedly, like a mantra. Like an answer to Elias’ question.

Elias smiles his ever-present smirk. “When all that’s done, and it’s gone as well. Why don’t you go ahead and find me again? But this time alone, please. Our reunion doesn’t need,” He looks towards the closed door of the main entry with disgust, “an audience.”

Jon feels the exact moment Martin gets bitten like the detonation of a bomb in his mind. He knows that’s Martin’s fear feeding him, knows the specific flavour of loneliness and undeserved devotion like the back of his hand by now. He could pinpoint Martin in a sea full of people just by fear alone. It’s… It feels warmer than most. Like it’s almost always at the expense of someone else, instead of himself.

Right now? Right now it damn well feels cold as ice. Because the second those rotten teeth take a hold of his flesh, he knows he’s done for. Like a door slamming shut. Martin’s alone, all alone. He might die, and he will have to do it alone, just like he always feared he would.

They’re fucked. God, they’re well and truly fucked.

Jon is frozen in place, unsure of what to do, where to go. Where to direct his anger. He looks at Elias like a deer caught in the headlights.

Elias just grins harder in response. “So, what will it be? Have a try at killing me with that nice little knife of yours?” He pauses. It feels like an eternity. “Or save poor little Martin from his fate as dog food? I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you chose the first, I’d be proud even. It would show that I was misinformed, that I’d misread the situation. But you and I both know I’m not wrong, am I?”

“No matter what happens,” Jon seethes, repositioning the knife in his hands, “I will come for you.”

“Oh, Jon. I’m counting on it.” Elias waves him goodbye half-heartedly. “But for now, off you go, soldier.”

He runs.

* * *

Jon cradles Martin’s head on his lap on the drive home like it's the most precious thing he's ever held, looking down at him and making damn sure he breathes. So far, he does, but Jon can feel the strain behind it. There’s blood all over Martin, all over the both of them. The back seat. They’re bathed in blood and a terrifyingly big quantity of it is Martin’s.

Daisy is yelling, yelling something about the road, some command or another. Jon can’t hear her, his ears are ringing loudly. He’s watching the infection in Martin as if trying to make it dissipate by sheer willpower alone. He hopes desperately against all hope that he’s wrong, but he knows he’s not. He can see the disease like black ink inside Martin’s veins, not itching forward just yet. Biding its time. Just like Elias had done.

Jon wants to hit himself for his stupidity. Of course, it had been a trick – but he’d been so _certain_ he could have killed him, even now. If Martin hadn’t been – If he hadn’t… Jon would have finished it. That knowledge weighs heavy on him, that he’d chosen the man he’s currently cradling in his lap over the potential salvation of humanity. He can’t bring himself to feel sorry for it, though.

Martin keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, blabbering on about the others, repeating “Jon” like it’s his personal mantra. Jon swallows thickly and lets him, unsure of what to reply. He could say it was fine, that it would be fine, but then again, he’s never been a good liar. He’s never been a good anything.

The thick black disease crawling under Martin’s skin seems to laugh in his face.

* * *

They’re in… in a house somewhere. Another safe house Daisy had said, but Jon is acutely aware that this had once belonged to someone else. A family of three who’d been hunted and consequently eaten by a creature of the Dark only the girl had been able to see underneath her bed. They hadn’t believed her, of course. Jon can still taste their fear in the air like the faint smell of ozone. Or electricity.

They were supposed to drive farther, to meet up with Melanie and Georgie somewhere. Put some safe distance between them and whatever hell that had been. But Martin had started moaning in his lap, deep and low like he was in unimaginable pain, and Jon had panicked and screamed at them to get off the road and find shelter, _damn it_. The first words he’s said since this morning.

Jon doesn’t understand this feeling inside him, this constant need to be the only one close to Martin. As if overprotectiveness now could make up for his errors in the past. It’s not a good emotion, it snarls and growls at anyone who dares to come near. Something dark and ugly had bared its teeth at the sight of Daisy and Basira opening the rear doors to lend a hand, to help him ease the burden. It had taken Jon an embarrassing amount of moments to realize that these were his _friends_. Martin’s friends. They had a right to consolation just as he did. They weren’t intruders. So he’d let them help, if begrudgingly.

Even with three pairs of arms, hoisting Martin out of the car and into the flat, positioning him on the couch gently so as not to hurt him had been nothing short of a miracle. Martin hadn’t even stirred once, which should have been a blessing but instead made way to nagging concern. Why wasn’t he complaining? His entire left arm, from armpit to wrist, had been slashed open for Goodness’ sake, raw and exposed except for the weak attempt at a bandage Jon had tried earlier. He hasn’t complained once, just looks as if he’s sleeping. Jon can’t feel any fear in him, which worries him more than it reasonably should.

They’ve left him there, there on the couch. Basira is getting the first aid supplies out of their car and although they’ve made a point to use them sparingly, they’re still terrifyingly sparse. An indication of how much trouble they’ve already stumbled upon, just looking for Elias.

They’re all out of disinfectant and stitches, so alcohol and dental floss will have to do. It has to. Jon refuses to stack up blood poisoning on top of Martin’s already severe problems. He’s already lost way too much blood on the way here, what with Daisy harrowingly missing corpses in the road with her crass driving skills.

Jon is in the kitchen, pouring water into a bucket he found. He doesn’t… doesn’t know what else to do. It feels surreal to think that only a few months ago, Martin and he had been hiding in a house not unlike this one, safe and unharmed. Martin had been reading him poetry. Showing him highland cows.

If only he hadn’t opened that damned statement. Everything after that has been hell, literal hell. From first barricading themselves into their cottage, to trying to make their ways back to London to their friends, to… trying to save as many people as possible along the way and failing spectacularly. There’s a reason Jon is a researcher, an Archivist, instead of anything resembling a hero. He doesn’t react well in stressful situations. Case in point.

But they’ve been trying. Trying to be heroes. Trying to remain optimistic, to not fall into despair, or at least Martin has been. Martin…

If Martin dies, then goddamn him, there’s no more hope. What had Elias called him? His last bastion of humanity. It’s… it’s surprisingly true. Martin is what keeps him sane these days, the one constant in his life that guarantees he won’t fall over the edge and change into someone, some _thing_ , he can’t recognize anymore. No matter how much his mind feels like a storm he can’t escape from these days, filled to the brim with knowledge no human should ever have access to, eyes in places he wishes he could blind. No matter how deep he goes, he never forgets Martin’s name. Those couple weeks underneath the warm Scottish sun. He tries to remember those as much as he can.

It’s… It’s hard, right now, trying to remain positive when his person is in the other room, bleeding to death. Being eaten from the inside by an evil he can see but can’t fight. Jon grits his teeth together as the bucket fills up almost completely. He… doesn’t know if that’s required for open surgery, but it certainly can’t hurt. The Eye doesn’t supply him with _that_ kind of knowledge.

Daisy barges into the room just as he plans to walk back with his full bucket like a well-meaning idiot. He knows she’s here to get the knives, kitchen supplies, anything and everything that can be used with a medical purpose in mind. Jon idly wonders if _spoons_ could be useful but drops the thought.

Daisy takes one look at him, tracks the eyebags under his eyes, and stops. She’s back, though not completely, not all the time. Some part of her will always belong to the Hunt, just as much as all of Jon belongs to the Eye. It’s a sobering thought, looking at his friend. She stares back.

“Jon…,” she starts and just by the look in her eyes and her tone he knows what’s coming. Is trying to shield himself against it like a bullet. “You know it’s…”

Jon sighs. “Yes.”

“You know he…” she lets herself trail off, not wanting to finish that sentence. Jon is glad for it; he didn’t want to hear it anyway.

“Not if I can help it.” _‘And not alone’_ he almost means to add but stops himself. It looks like Daisy heard it, anyway, looking at him strangely like she’s trying to figure out what his plans are. He doesn’t have any, at least not currently. His mind is blank. Well, except for one thing: he won’t leave Martin alone. He will not be alone, no matter what. Jon doesn’t care what the others have to say about it. That’s it, that’s his plan. Don’t leave Martin.

Jon can tell she means to ask him how he’s doing but decides against it. He’s glad for it, glad neither of them are those types of people. He doesn’t want to lie.

“Hmmm,” Daisy says, contemplating. The front door opens hurriedly. “Basira’s back.”

“Yes.”

“We should…” She doesn’t finish that sentence either, just looks at him one last time before making her way to the kitchen cabinet. Jon lets her.

* * *

An hour and a half. That’s how long this has been going on, the- the operation. Jon’s been delegated to watch duty, not so gently shoved out of the room and is now sitting cross-legged on the carpet and counting seconds. He should be angrier he got thrown out, maybe, but after a moment of reflection, he’d understood.

After all, it’s hard to stitch someone back up when a hysteric man is beside you insistently yelling to _cut it out, it’s poisoning him, can’t you see? Get it out of him._ Basira had been trying to tell him, her sleeve shirt completely soaked in blood. Had been trying to explain that she couldn’t exactly _mutilate_ Martin more, just cut up a huge chunk of the pink flesh in his arm on a whim, he’d consequently bleed out. Jon hadn’t wanted to hear it back then, still thinking that maybe if they could just eradicate the disease, it would stop growing. He should have known powers like these can’t be stopped. Once they take root, they have no choice but to grow, and grow, and grow.

So, yes, he’d been thrown out. He’s not, not _happy_ about it, but he has to admit he’s a little relieved. Because earlier, while Basira had been trying to mend flesh, he’d seen the white of bone. And while Martin is far too delirious to form coherent sentences, his lungs have enough function to scream in pain, even if he doesn’t know _why_ he’s being hurt. That familiar fear had hit Jon like a brick to the face, a multitude of _what’s happening who is hurting me please stop oh god please don’t please._ White, cold panic. Even now, it’s a constant in his ear.

Right now, he’s trying to distract himself with something he knows well: Beholding. His mind is currently cataloging every piece of information he can about this, this. Affliction Martin has got now. He doesn’t, doesn’t want to, but it’s like his brain is running on autopilot. He can’t help it. Human Jon wants to cloud himself in the comfort of ignorance, wants to conjure up various scenarios where they both make it out of this alive, all of them. The Eye just wants to _see_ and behold and gather information. Even now, it’s almost as if it’s _happy_ someone in his circle got infected, giddy with the potential to watch this… this disease unfold right before its eyes. (His eyes. They’re his.)

Jon has already decided to stay with Martin through it because that’s what he does, or at least what Martin would have done for him. Because he doesn’t want him to be alone. The strange entity using his body like a rental has decided to stay because it wants to watch Martin get ravished, to wither and die. It wants to catalog the whole experience.

Oh, if only Jon could punch himself.

Behind his eyelids a thousand pictures play before him, all of this… new sickness. _Zombie virus_ would seem silly to voice out loud, but. It gets the point across, doesn’t it? Why invent a new word, if this one suits its purpose just fine?

A woman picking her daughter up from day-care with a bite on her calf. A group of infected breaking into barricaded doors, pillaging all they can find. A man and his new-born – Oh, oh _God_. So much blood. And underneath all that the constant drum of _meat, contaminate, break and kill._ Repeat. Corruption, Flesh, and Slaughter – it is everything he thought it’d be.

Through all this tragedy, he’s able to map out a timetable. Step 1: Get bitten. Step 2: Fever. Step 3: Rapid improvement. Step 4: Deteriorate. His mind wants to use _‘rot’,_ but he can’t use that word, he can’t. Can’t use it in the same vein as Martin’s name, like there’s something foul to it. He just… He can’t. Step 5: Carnage. All spanning approximately a week at most, more often than not less than 5 days. Jon shudders. 5 days.

The finishing end result looks eerily similar to Jane Prentiss, at least externally. It’s… Maybe it’s a worm. Worms are positive things, he’s just decided. He can kill worms. Worms are good.

* * *

“You can’t be serious-“

“And you can’t seriously be considering-“

“Shh, keep it down, the both of you!” Daisy is the one voice of reason in the room, which is just hilariously bizarre. “You’re going to wake up sleeping beauty over there.”

Jon winces. Maybe his voice had been raised a considerable amount, but that’s just because. Because of the subject matter, it’s absurd, it’s horrifying, it’s… It’s-

“I can’t let this happen,” he punches out, quieter this time. He looks towards Martin’s sleeping form; from this position, he almost can’t see the decaying black lodged firmly underneath his skin. He could almost act like this is normal, like he’s just taking a nap. “I won’t let this happen.”

His passionate words are futile when it comes to Basira, though. “It’s going to happen sooner or later. Look, I didn’t want to have to do this either, but I- I'd rather it be by our-“

“I said _no_ ,” Jon punches out. There’s a threat there, loud and clear, to any one of the two that even dares to come close to try. The Eye doesn’t entertain the thought either, horribly hostile towards its one opportunity to see up close. He hates it for it, he truly does, but when he can feel the familiar static in the air, the pressure behind his temple, he smirks. The next time he speaks it’s his voice interlaced with something different and ancient: _“If either of you even tries to. To…”_ Even all powered up he can barely even say it. He swallows. _“I will kill you before you can even come close enough to try.”_

He’s never threatened murder before, but in this context, it feels appropriate. There’s a first time for everything.

The look on Basira’s face tells him she’s seriously thinking of putting him down as well, is mulling it over whether she would succeed or not. The static in the air grows louder, starts ringing in his ear like a warning bell. He won’t be the one to hold Martin’s hand and possibly hold him down as one of them drives a knife in between his ribcage. No matter how many arguments they voice about the _humane choice,_ or about _free will._

“It’s Martin’s choice.”

He honest to God growls at that. He growls because he knows damn well, she’s got a point. He also knows that Martin would choose that outcome in a heartbeat if it meant not hurting others. So, screw free will. What did that ever do for him, for any of them?

_“Absolutely not.”_

He can see Basira open her mouth for another retort just as Daisy steps in between to act as peacemaker (again, hilarious) when he hears something else that catches his attention. It’s soft, almost inaudible, but he hears it all the same.

“J-Jon?”

He’s kneeled at the foot of the couch in an instant. Almost on instinct he takes a hold of Martin’s hand, clutches it as hard as he can muster. Part of him is still observing Daisy and Basira from the other side of the room, though, who are mercifully silent.

“M-Martin,” he breathes out, like a prayer. Like he’s just come up for air. Martin looks… clammy underneath all those blankets. There’s a sickly sheen of sweat covering him, soaking into the fabric. His hair is curling itself on his forehead, and that is new – has his hair always been this curly? Why doesn’t he know this after months holed up together, no alternative but to breathe into each other’s space? What else doesn’t he know? Jon commits the information to memory like it’s as important as one of those damn statements. It is to him.

“W-W-What…” Martin starts, but Jon can tell even that simple word is straining.

“H-Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he shushes him. Instinctively, like it’s a muscle memory of his youth, he places his cold palm onto Martin’s forehead to feel for any fever. He’s burning hot. “You, you’re sick. Hold on.”

This seems to be new information to a delirious Martin. “I, I am-?” He can barely even get the last word out, breaking off in a wet cough. “Ouch…” he wheezes. “Shouldn’t… Shouldn’t have gone outside in the, in the rain, huh?”

Jon laugh-sobs, realizing too late that Martin thinks they’re still in Scotland. Well, that makes it easier. “Yes.”

“S-So-Sorry.”

“Don’t, don’t apologize.”

“So… S… Sorry…” There’s a silence there. Martin’s eyes are open, but they’re glassy and unfocused. Jon can tell they can barely even make out his surroundings, which is a blessing.

“Go back to sleep, Martin.”

“Will you…” Jon knows what he’s struggling to ask, and the knowledge of that makes something hot rise in his throat. “Will … will you still be, be here when I … when I wake up?”

That question. Martin had asked that seemingly every day, every night in Scotland, disbelieving that Jon would willingly spend time with him. _Will you still be here in the morning? Will you be here when I return from the shops?_ Not always, but still, even when he wouldn’t voice it out loud, the question had lingered in the air like an arrangement of cobwebs. It had been a constant. That question in this horrifyingly off context makes tears well up in Jon’s eyes. He fights them down.

“Y-Yes,” he chokes out. He wants to say _‘always’_ , wants to say _‘of course’_ but those answers have too many syllables for his capacity at the moment. He thinks it though, and vows again to stay right here, even… Even then.

Martin doesn't even wait for his answer, he’s just fallen right back asleep. Jon exhales shakily, slouches over. He’s been drawn taut for the last few minutes. Jon doesn’t go back to their original fight, not immediately. Instead, he spends a few more moments anticipating, waiting for Martin to rouse again. He’s still holding his hand in a death grip, but Martin is hardly even holding on. Even his fear is dampened. It seems that he’s well and truly out of it.

“Jon…” He doesn’t know who’s saying it, Daisy or Basira, but it doesn’t matter. Jon looks up sharply, head snapping forward in their direction. Whatever they can catch in his expression, it shuts them right up. They look… resigned. Like whatever is glinting in his eyes, it’s sharp and final.

Basira looks… looks like she’d just found the final piece in a puzzle. Daisy just looks sad. She’s the only one who knows where this is heading.

“You can,” Jon starts, exhales shakily. “You can leave in the morning. Go reconnect with Melanie and Georgie, maybe even find Elias and kill him. Me and Martin, we. We’ll… We’ll stay here, and if… if this is a false alarm, we’ll find you.”

“And if it’s not?” Daisy asks, knowing the answer damn well.

“Then I will reconnect with you on my own.”

Neither of them calls him out on the blatant lie.

* * *

“Don’t… Don’t do this. Whatever happened yesterday, all it did was prove that we’ve got a _shot_ , Jon. Elias is vulnerable, and he knows it, he wouldn’t have lured us in a trap otherwise-“

Jon sighs, massaging his temple. “I know. Still, it… it doesn’t change anything.”

“You- You shouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t you?” _If it was Basira,_ he doesn’t say.

Daisy goes silent at that, still hands him the loaded gun, though. They’ve both reached an agreement, both too alike to be fighting over this.

She doesn’t hug him, and he doesn’t make any moves to, either. After, he wishes he had.


	2. Stage 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon self-quarantine.  
> (TW: brief mention of suicide in a paragraph, it's the one with 'Jon has a sick picture inside his mind then'. flashbacks of the attack etc.)

Taking care of an injured Martin is… surprisingly easy. He sleeps most of the time, barely wakes up enough for Jon to feed him lukewarm soup before he goes back under. Jon spends what he considers his alone time either staring at Martin’s sleeping form with an intensity that quite frankly embarrasses him, or goes about looking around the flat for … Well, for anything. He’s never been here before.

He finds a grotesque number of puzzles, one of which has been started but has what appears to be blood splatter on it _(a family lived here, a family of three…),_ some hidden away liquor, a few books that could be interesting reads, as well as a hamster cage in the girl’s room with a he’s shocked to find out still alive hamster inside. It stares up at him like it expects to be fed and sometimes he wishes The Eye had bestowed the ability to communicate with animals on him.

He never strays long though; he doesn’t want to miss… Martin waking back up. He doesn’t want to miss a single thing, even taking into factor how boring it gets after a while of Martin-staring.

Jon counts the days, even though he desperately wants not to. He can’t help it; he needs to know how much more time he’s got. It’s day two. The Eye inside him is giddy with excitement.

* * *

Martin wakes up soon after that, somewhere around midnight. He jolts awake screaming. Jon has been sleeping in a torturous position in a fluffy reclining chair he’d found in the girl’s room, scooted so close he could touch Martin’s hand if he wanted to. He should have expected this. That doesn’t stop him from jerking awake in similar taste, knocking his chair backward.

Jon idly wonders if any monsters are roaming about who might have heard Martin’s high pitch screech. The doors are locked, but… It’s only the vaguest semblance of safety. In the end, what would a locked door do against a creature with claws smelling blood? Not much.

“Martin,” he breathes out, scrambling upwards and back on his knees. They hurt from the strain of all this kneeling, but what can he do. “Martin, it’s alright. It’s, it’s just me. You’re safe. Please… please stop screaming.”

Martin stops at that, chooses instead to let out these soft little wheezes, holding onto the sofa’s pillow for dear life. He’s still sweaty and looks ill, but his appearance looks a considerable amount better than it did 5 hours ago. Jon wishes he could say that that thought reassured him when all it does instead is remind him of the limited time they have.

“W-What…” Martin mutters, looking around wildly. Jon doesn’t know how much he remembers; hopes he doesn’t remember Basira cutting into him. “Where… Where am I… Where’s…” Martin swallows thickly. “Jon, where are the others?”

“What… I mean what do you remember?” It comes to him then that Martin might not remember the ambush, might be more in denial than even him. It’s a comforting thought – it would make explaining all this, explaining their isolation certainly easier. Is knowledge of inevitability better than being ignorant until the very end, but happy? He wonders. He knows what The Eye would choose, though.

Martin blinks. He still hasn’t moved. “I… We found Elias, I think? Daisy managed to track him to this, this luxurious house. Or apartment? I… I don’t remember.” He looks at him then, eyes all bright and shiny with uncertainty. Jon tries to smile, but he doesn’t need to see himself to know it’s a grimace.

“What about when we entered the building?” _Did you feel it ripping chunks of meat off your arm? Or did the adrenaline and fear cloud your vision? I hope it did._

“We were… We were waiting for you… Something, something attacked us…” Martin trails off, trying to reposition himself and wincing from the pain in his arm. Yes, getting torn into will do that to you.

Jon breathes a sigh of relief, getting off the dusty floor and sitting down next to Martin on the couch with a squeaky noise. It’s… it’s not the most comfortable, he has to admit. He feels bad that Martin had to sleep on this, but then again. They’d had limited options back then. “Yes, you… Martin, you were injured.”

Martin scoffs. “I feel _fine_.”

Jon thinks of that second stage, the rapid improvement. He winces. “Don’t try to move your arm too much, it’s. We, we just managed to stitch you back up.”

“S-Stitches…?” Martin whispers, looking down at his left arm, cloaked in a sweater Jon had put him into with a lot of difficulty. He’d thought… Well, maybe Martin would be cold. And he didn’t want to look at _it_ any longer than he had to, at that black spot. Martin looks at his arm like it’s an intruder like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. He looks back up at Jon’s face with dread. “Jon, how badly was I hurt?”

Jon’s never self-proclaimed himself to be a good liar. Quite the opposite. He’d… He’d never seen the necessity, or felt the need, for lies. Annoyance and deflecting methods yes, but not outright lies. It’s not his strong suit. Right now though, he can see its merits. Martin just returned to him. He swallows thickly. “You, you weren’t… It wasn’t… great. But Basira, she patched you up, but you were too out of it to notice.” He pointedly doesn’t mention the screams.

“Basira, Daisy, where are they? Are they…” Martin trails off, not willing to ask that particular question. It’s one they’ve had to ask quite a while over the years.

“They’re alive. Fine. They helped me carry you over here. They just.” He sighs. Here we go. “We all decided it would be best for you and me to stay here a little while longer.” _5 days. That’s how long we have._ “Just until you’re – better. And then we’ll reconnect with the others while they find Melanie and Georgie. You… you scared me a bit.” _I’m still scared._

“Did you… Did you find Elias?” The question hangs in the air accusingly. Add that to the list of his failures. Jon looks away.

“Yes. It wasn’t worth it.”

“Jon…”

He changes the subject. “Do you want some tea? I could, I could make us some tea.”

Martin just looks at him dumbfounded, blinking. “It’s the middle of the night. What time is it, anyway? Aren’t you tired?”

 _Yes. That doesn’t mean I will sleep, though._ “No.”

That lie it looks like Martin managed to catch, scowling at him. If that’s the only thing Martin gets hung up on, he’ll be glad. “Well, I am. I’m tired as hell.” Tired, right. He’s tired. That… that doesn’t sound like an improvement. He still feels feverish and weak, so he’s not too far along. Okay, alright. That’s… good.

Jon never thought he’d be glad that Martin _doesn’t_ feel better.

The next question is spoken so softly Jon has to strain his ears to properly hear it. When he does, his face starts heating up. “Do you think they have a queen-sized bed in here?”

“I… I, I haven’t looked,” Jon stutters. He’s made it a strict rule not to enter the parent’s sleeping quarters – that’s where the metallic smell of blood is the strongest. “Y-yes.”

Martin just looks at him, a silent question. Should… should they? Jon has no choice but to remember his last conversation with Basira, when she’d unceremoniously dropped handcuffs into his palm and had said, after noticing his bewilderment, ‘I’d cuff him to the bedpost if I were you’. He feels compelled to wonder about it now – at the time he’d scoffed in horror and had hid the handcuffs away like they were dirty, but then again. When will the things coming out of Martin’s mouth stop sounding like romantic poetry and more like angry snarls? When does he have to draw the line – and will he do that?

Looking at Martin now, wide-eyed, whispering “I don’t want to go to sleep alone” all quiet as if it’s an admission of weakness. Not sure if he’s allowed the comfort, even now. Jon doesn’t think he will deny him, even… After. The cuffs are a last resort he’d rather not pass, but if he has to, he will make damn well sure Martin isn’t the only one deteriorating.

Jon sighs. “Alright.”

* * *

They fall asleep on a stranger’s bed, under a stranger’s sheet. Jon can smell the faint hint of it, of that tragedy, though he tries not to. He knows, realistically Martin and him both know he’s stopped desiring sleep ever since this nightmare happened. They still keep up the appearance though.

Martin’s uninjured hand fumbles for Jon’s in the dark, crossing the distance. Jon had insisted on sleeping so far apart, even if he desperately wants to close the gap. It’s… He doesn’t want to hurt Martin. He doesn’t want to lay his head on that warm chest and hear the rhythmic beats of a disease-ridden heart pumping tar into his veins. He still decides to return the gesture and squeeze Martin’s digits. He’s warm. That fact alone, as well as the worried expression on his half-obscured face, has Jon choking on something hot and heavy crawling up his throat. He would have been able to experience this sooner, far longer, if only…

“Jon?”

“I… I love you, you know that, right?”

Martin blinks. Even in the dark, Jon can see his face perfectly. He’s aware his eyes must be shining in the dark, glowing lights of omniscience, as they have done ever since his coma and his decision to… to change. Martin’s never minded, though. Never even so much as flinched when all he could see in a room were cat-like illuminated irises. Jon doesn’t know if he hates him or loves him more for it.

“You really were scared for my life today, weren’t you?” As always, Martin can see right through him.

“… Yes.”

Martin smiles, a soft gesture meant to comfort him. In the end, all it does is make the clock in Jon’s head tick louder. “I’m fine, though. I mean, I’ve been better, but I’m sure I’ll… I’ll be right as rain in a couple of days. So why are you looking at me like I’m about to disappear at any moment?”

Jon scrambles for an appropriate answer for that. “You just…,” he murmurs, hiding his face in his pillow. It stinks, but he’s not about to complain. “You just lost a lot of blood.” A half-truth.

Martin’s fingers close around the back of Jon’s skull and massage-scratch it gently like he’s massaging the worry out of his mind. Jon pushes his body into the gesture with all his might. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon,” Martin says oh so softly and Jon honest to God has to furiously blink back tears. He forces the sob that’s caught in his throat back down like an unwanted guest.

He wants to scream, wants to sob _‘You don’t know. You have no fucking idea how hard this is going to be. What am I going to do after you’re gone?’_ Instead, he just hums softly. He can’t trust his treacherous voice to do anything else.

“I love you, too. Now let’s. Let’s at least try to sleep, alright? Catch some rest.”

Jon muffles an “alright” into his pillow.

* * *

Martin’s dreams that night are visibly restless, though there is very little for Jon to do to stop it.

Jon has quit the notion of sleep altogether, choosing instead to watch Martin twist and turn. He’s stopped trying to wake him an hour ago. Although Martin claims not to remember the attack, it’s clear by his facial expressions that his psyche still very obviously remembers being chewed on.

Jon watches his turmoil, can feel the fear hanging thick in the air in and around Martin’s side of the bed. He closes his eyes.

* * *

He’s dreaming. That should not be possible, not after the end of the world rendered him inhuman, not after he chose to surrender himself to its power. Everything in his mind is telling him this is a trick, mind games. And yet…

It feels… real enough. Not 100% concrete, there’s a hazy aspect to it, like a filter. It feels like he’s watching a memory.

Memories of the attack. He’s being – being ripped into. There, in the distance he can make out Basira and Daisy, both of them struggling with attackers of their own. Clearly winning. He’s the only one who’s being crushed to the ground by inhumane strength and a rotten hand slamming his hand on the concrete. It hurts. God, everything _hurts_.

There is the sensation of sharp needle-like pain on his arm and he can _see_ something that used to be a man opening his arm up like a Christmas present. With glee in its eyes. He can see all that, can feel it even, feel the veins being snapped in two by those sharp, sharp teeth (the creature’s surprisingly thoughtful). Yet it feels… far away. He might be dissociating. There’s still enough of him left to scream though. Scream for help, anyone, anything, _just please_.

“Please,” he whimpers as the thing’s mouth starts traveling up his arm like sharp kisses. “Please please please…” Daisy and Basira can’t hear him. The pleas are only for him and his – his assailant. His consumer.

There’s… There’s a figure sat in the distance, something he can just about make out if he cranes his neck painfully. It’s. At least he thinks it’s a figure? It’s… Oh God, its _eyes_. There are so many eyes…

“Please,” he pleads in the direction of the stranger while the creature ‘hmmm’s in culinary delight. “Please help me.”

He’s half-aware that that should be him, this stranger in the dark. That’s _his_ face, or – his not-face. And yet he lies here, being torn into. While his other self watches.

The stranger opens his mouth. What comes out of his mouth next is decidedly _not_ Jonathan Sims’ voice. Not even close. “Isn’t it so much better like this?” Jonah drawls with his not-mouth. He can see him, see that disgusting silhouette hiding in the shadows behind it. Disgust flows through his veins faster than the life currently being sucked out of him.

“Screw you.”

“Now, Jon,” he chastises. “Manners.” He blinks, a fraction of a second, and suddenly he’s no longer on the floor being hallowed out. Suddenly he’s standing, standing there in the shadows and watching Martin struggling on the floor, obscured except for his pained and tears-stricken face. He wants to move, but he can’t. His feet are frozen in place. Jonah Magnus’ perfectly manicured nails are holding him in place by his shoulders. “Though I’m certain that in due time, you’ll realize it as well. It won’t be long now and then you’ll return to me. Don’t worry. It’s almost over.” Jonah chuckles in his ear. “Buckle up.”

_I would rather kill myself than go back to you._

Jonah – Elias? – laughs, loud and obnoxious. “Oh, I’m sure you do. I’m sure you will _try_. But you see…” The hands travel north, one inching closer towards his heart. Jon wants to bite them off, do something, _anything_. “I hold the strings of your life in my hands. Your life is no longer your own – and neither is your death. You die when I tell you to, and _only_ then.” He chuckles. “But you’re welcome to test out the details of our contract. I’d love to see you try.”

Jon has a sick picture inside his mind then, certainly brought there by Elias: Him, in the bathtub, blood flowing into the water and mixing with it perfectly. A bullet to the heart. Strangulation. Martin succumbing to his illness and turning his snarls on him, ripping and tearing at his flesh until there’s nothing left. Even exposed to the air and rubbed raw, his heart beats on. His bloody stupid heart won’t. stop. Beating.

He wishes he could say the slide show stops after that, but. He doesn’t wake up for _hours_ after that. After a while, the constant vision of gore and blood turns tedious.


	3. Stage 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gets better. Jon tries for normalcy

Martin makes tea first thing in the morning. It’s a futile gesture – neither of them needs to eat or drink anymore, no one does – but it’s so quintessentially _Martin_ that it makes Jon’s already strained heart burn.

He doesn’t remember waking up, doesn’t remember screaming. After a while, he was just… released. Dropped back down into his body with his eyes already open. Martin is gone from his bedside, which causes panic to run through his veins for a minute. That’s until he hears the indicating noise of a tea kettle operating and slumps back down in relief.

Breakfast is tea and whatever they find in the somehow still operating fridge that hasn’t gone bad or sour. Which turns out to be a frozen loaf of bread that they heat back up, along with some jam Martin found… somewhere.

Martin won’t stop running around, preparing breakfast and making tea even with his bandaged arm protectively hugged to his chest, like it’s nothing. Like he’s already forgotten. Jon desperately wants to tell him to stop, to stop being so bloody _healthy_. _Please go back to being sick. Please._

Breakfast is awkward, to put it mildly. Martin tries to chew his loaf slowly, while Jon’s tea grows cold while he spends his morning staring holes into the person sitting opposite him. He can tell it vexes Martin, but he ever so gracefully decides to ignore it.

“So, ummm,” Martin starts, a few traces of jam resting at the corner of his mouth. “I know you don’t… Don’t like to talk about your, uhh, dreams. Nightmares. But I figured you… I mean, it just.” Martin sighs, trying again. “It looked like you’d been sleeping? Dreaming, almost? Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jon unhelpfully supplies. He will _not_ talk about this with Martin, refuses to.

“Ah,” Martin exclaims, stupidly happy for him. He smiles. “That’s. That’s good, I suppose. I mean, isn’t it good?”

Jon just makes a noncommittal gesture.

“Yeah… Hmm… Well.” He can tell Martin is trying for banter here, which is painfully falling flat on Jon’s refusal to participate. “I don’t suppose you want to … want to talk about it. That’s fine. I can, I can talk about mine if you want to? It was rather,” he chuckles softly. “Freaky.”

 _No. I’d rather not hear about you reminiscing the trauma of being eaten alive. I already got a taste of that from Elias._ “Go… Go ahead.” Just to mask his boring stare, he decides to take a sip of his by now lukewarm tea. It still tastes somewhat decent.

“So, I got coddled by a spider.”

Jon does a double take. “You- You what?”

Martin laughs, delighted at rousing a reaction out of him that isn’t just shrugs or murmurs. “I know, right? Normally you’re the one with the… arachnophobia. It didn’t… it didn’t hurt me or anything, just. Wrapped me up?”

“ _Wrapped_ you _up_?”

“Yeah, like a freakish embrace, you know?” Martin hugs his chest with his uninjured hand to prove his point. Jon’s alarm bells are ringing, he’s always conflated spider imagery with danger, and he hasn’t been wrong so far. If Annabelle…

“Martin…” he starts carefully. “Martin, you’re not…?”

“What? Oh,” he seems to have gotten the point Jon’s trying to make. “Oh, oh _no_. No, not that. It wasn’t a… _malicious_ spider. Just a big spider. Big and fluffy. It wasn’t a nightmare, either.”

“Hmmm.”

He coughs, suddenly dragging the conversation back into awkward territory. “Anyway,” Martin starts, already getting up and taking his empty plate to the sink.

Jon wants to shake him and tell him to quit it, to stop going so. Fast. To stop trying to speed up this… progress. But Martin doesn’t know that he’s dying, can hardly believe he’d gotten fatally wounded just yesterday. That’s Jon’s doing, the lesser of two evils. One he’s fine with. So he shouldn’t exactly act as hurt as he does right, should be fine with Martin trying to do business as usual.

He grabs his wrist mid-movement instead.

“Jon…?”

He’s struggling for words, looking up at Martin’s open face. He never wants to stop looking at that face. “Can’t we… I mean, can’t we just… Slow down for a minute, please?” This is already going too fast for his liking. “Just… stay.”

Martin looks as if he understands, but only slightly. Still, when he tugs on Jon’s arm to get him to stand up and walk into his embrace, Jon doesn’t fight it. Lets himself be submerged into Martin’s body heat. He wedges his face in between the warmth of Martin’s neck connecting with his shoulder, breathes him in. He smells like tea and bed.

“Yes,” Martin exhales, and Jon can tell he’s smiling even from his compromised position. “Alright. We can do that. Alright.”

They stay like that for what could have been minutes or hours. Just basking in each other’s warmth. If Jon shudders painfully, trying to reign in his emotions, Martin thankfully doesn’t comment on it. There’s a glinting object in the corner of the room, one Jon horrifically can tell are the handcuffs, disregarded and thrown onto the floor. The blood from yesterday still staining the carpet. It seems almost taunting. Jon just hugs Martin harder in response.

At this moment, there are no fears, no eye. All Jon can see and feel, surround himself with, is Martin. It’s a security blanket, a hiding place. One he’s about to be ripped out of very soon. It’s a sobering thought. He decides right then and there that he will find a way. Find a way to… to follow Martin, wherever he may go. He won’t let him go alone. And if Jonah, or The Eye, have a problem with that they can go screw themselves. That’s what he decides.

* * *

They spend the next few hours, the afternoon, just lazily roaming about the house. Martin finds the hamster adorable, rummaging the cardboards and closets for anything vaguely resembling rodent food. Names him ‘George’, for some reason. (“Hey, I never said I was good with names!” “I’m, I’m not saying anything.”) It manages to drive a smile onto Jon’s face, time and time again.

Right now they’re, uhh. Well. They’re… kissing. They’ve been kissing for quite some time now, Jon just decided out of the blue to lead Martin to the couch to snog the hell out of him. He doesn’t seem to mind, is more energized than usual. That should concern Jon, he knows, but it’s hard to think when Martin’s quick and slender fingers find their way under his dress shirt.

He gasps. He’s almost sitting on his lap like this, knees bent at awkward angles, hands scrunching up Martin’s shirt. He’s never proclaimed himself to be a good kisser, and Martin must realize this. Must – feel, he guesses, the inexperience. Or well, not lack of experience, he went to Oxford Uni, after all. He’s just… a little rusty. A little stilted. Hardly knows what to do with his body when they’re like this. Martin doesn’t seem to mind that either when Jon tentatively lets his tongue swipe across Martin’s lower lip.

Even after everything, after The Lonely, after, after Scotland. This is still a novelty. A wonder Jon can’t believe he’s the protagonist in when Martin cradles his cheek and pulls him closer, onto his lap. Deepens the kiss just a little more. As soon as their tongues meet in the middle, shots of scolding heat travel up his body and over his spine. It’s… He’s not usually so… So… He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

George is squeaking in his cage, nibbling on the bars rapidly. It creates a strange soundtrack.

It all stops dead cold when Martin whimpers into the kiss, breathes an “Oww” in the space between them. Jon hadn’t noticed that he’d been squeezing Martin’s… arm. His other one. The stitched up one. He retreats almost immediately, falling over himself to apologize.

“I, I – I’m sorry, I- I know you,” God, what is he even trying to _say?_ “I… I’m sorry.”

Martin just winces slightly, draws himself back a little, though Jon couldn’t have helped but notice Martin trying to reel him back in earlier, in for another kiss, even with the pain. His pride is happy, at least. “It, it’s alright. Really. Just… sore.” He laughs lightly, drawing a hand up his face and over his hairline. He looks… ruffled, lips a little swollen. (There’s a slight hint of a mark underneath Martin’s chin – when had he done _that?_ ) It’s a good look on him. “We should, I mean, _I_ should maybe. Take a shower. I must reek.”

Shower. Water. That would include Martin shedding most if not all of his clothing, which would leave his secret out in the open. There’s no way Martin won’t wonder why the hell his arm has already healed so quickly, why it looks weeks old instead of a day. Why it nearly doesn’t hurt.

Jon panics. “I, I, I mean – Are you sure? I mean, with the bandages and everything-“

“Oh, that’s another thing. We should probably change the wrap on this bad boy, huh?” Martin points to his arm. (He has no idea how right he is.) “Just so it won’t get infected.”

_It’s already infected. It’s done. I can feel the disease pulsing from over here._

“I don’t think that’s- That’s necessary.” He swallows. “I would advise we didn’t.”

Martin looks at him as if he’s lost his mind as if he can’t follow. “Jon, I at least need to _shower_. You can’t advise me from not showering. No offense.”

There’s a heavy silence. Jon looks down at his hands, knowing he’s in the wrong but with no way to change his position. He knows he’s being unreasonable.

“I mean, unless…” Martin asks quietly, almost whispers. “Unless you want to… to join me?”

Jon chokes on his spit so hard that for a second he thinks he almost might pass out. He catches himself though. Barely. “I, I, I mean, I – I mean, it, if you- if you-“ he stammers out, embarrassed. He lets himself entertain the thought for a second, the idea of… _distracting_ Martin in the process of showering, long enough for him to not notice the closed wound on his arm. It’s a… It sounds… He doesn’t know what that idea sounds like.

He doesn’t need to fret for long though, because Martin is just as embarrassed as he is at having brought it up, standing up abruptly. “Never- never mind. It’s silly. Of course, you wouldn’t, we shouldn’t.”

Jon almost stops him; almost full-body tackles him to the floor in a futile attempt to have him stay. It would do him no good, he knows. He’s just slowing down the inevitable. So he stays put and watches Martin shut the bathroom door. He hopes against all hope, prays, that Martin won’t notice. That he won’t look down. It’s a childish idea.

* * *

The answer comes barely ten minutes later, with Martin _screaming_ when he notices it. Jon walks to the door worryingly, he can hear a commotion inside, like Martin’s stumbled and hit his head. He knocks on the door gingerly. “Martin, are you alright?”

The door gets slammed open, revealing a shirtless Martin walking out of a steaming room. He’s – He shouldn’t look this good panicked and anxious, but he does. His hair is slightly curly and the freckles on his chest are so big in quantity they seem to take up almost his entire body. Jon tries not to look at his chest, though. Because Martin’s eyes are swimming in unshed tears.

“What. Is. That.” He punches out, pointing accusingly at his arm. It looks much like Jon had expected, almost completely healed over, except for the very prominent part of the black veins protruding out of his skin and traveling upwards. They pulse when Martin flexes his hand.

Jon doesn’t know. Like he said, he very rarely plans ahead these days. “Martin, please-“

“Don’t ‘please Martin’ me! Don’t you _dare_ try to tell me this is _nothing!”_ Martin screeches, tears finally falling now. “Look at this, it’s – I’m _black_. I’m oozing black fucking sludge in my veins, what the _fuck_ ”

“Martin, calm down.”

“Calm down – Calm down from _what?_ What is this?”

Jon sighs, letting his back hit the wall. “You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“You…” He doesn’t want to say it. _God_ , he doesn’t want to say it. He wants to go back to twenty minutes ago, a month ago, a year. He desperately craves for none of this to have happened. But Jon never gets what he wants. “You were attacked when we found Elias. It was my fault. He… It, it was a trap. He sent them out to- to attack you.”

“Jon,” Martin says, deadpan, face shockingly calm even with the trails of tears. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

So he does. Jon tells him everything, the attack, Elias’ speech, the ride back. The- the emergency operation. He even spills all the facts he’d rather him not know, like the fact that Basira had advised on giving him a mercy shot. It… It’s almost as if there’s a force squeezing his vocal cords. He just can’t stop. The Eye doesn’t permit him to.

When he lets slip the various stages of the disease, how far along he is already, Martin honest to God sobs at that, doubling over slightly. Like the information had punched him in the gut, like Jon had slapped him in the face. He wants to go to him, to comfort him, but he isn’t sure if he’s allowed that at the moment. Maybe he’s lost his privileges altogether.

“You…” Martin starts after a while, eyes red-rimmed and expression pure raw hurt. “I can’t believe you withheld this from me. You _lied_ to me!”

“I, I didn’t,” Jon stammers. “I just. I didn’t want you to worry.”

Martin groans loudly. “ _Of course_ , of course, I would worry! You had no right to keep this from me! This is my life!”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Jon mutters, though he has the feeling Martin can barely hear his apologies in his rage. Angry at him is better than Martin being a sobbing mess on the floor, though. Small victories.

“I mean, _you’re_ not the one who- who’s dying – changing.” Martin’s face pales considerably as if he’s about to throw up. “Oh God.”

“Martin, I’m. I’m sorry.”

Martin just looks at him coldly. “What day is it?” Jon blinks, doesn’t understand. “I meant, how much time do we have? Until I… Until?”

He’s taking this surprisingly well, considering. It’s alarming. Jon would prefer it more if he’d lashed out, if he was in disbelief, anything. Not this cold acceptance. “It’s hard to tell…”

“Just. Give me an estimation. I _know_ you know.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. Why is he always goddamn right? Jon swallows thickly, trying to get his bearings under control. He wishes he could lie to him, sugar-coat the truth a little more, but he’s done that enough already. Martin deserves to know. “It’s the third day. We’ve got … 2 or 3 more days now, approximately.”

Martin just exhales shakily at that, walking backwards and letting his back hit the wall.

 _“Fuck off.”_ He lets himself fall to the floor with a loud thud, completely exhausted and breaking down. Jon runs to him almost immediately, Martin’s anger at him be damned.

Martin’s sobs start growing louder as soon as Jon’s hands gently cup his face. He’s wet with tears, and Jon quite honestly might be as well. He can’t tell, his vision is blurry and focused in on the crumpled mess of a man in front of him. Not even The Eye can reach him like this.

“Martin,” he whispers, as light as his touch. Martin just whimpers in response. “Martin, it’s going to be okay.” He’s lying. Of course he is.

“No, it’s not,” Martin wheezes, looking up, finally looking up at him. His eyes are shining with tears.

“M-Maybe, but… I won’t leave you. Do you hear me? I’m _not_ leaving you.”

There’s something in his expression, there must be, for Martin to recoil back from his comfort so violently after that. Jon just crouches there, confused. Dares not to move any closer. “Y-You…” Martin whispers, absolutely horrified. “You want to stay, don’t you? A-After… You… My _God_ , Jon. You can’t!”

He grows defensive at that. “It’s my choice to make, not yours.”

Martin just looks at him incredulously. “If- If your choice includes _dying with me_ then yes, I think I have a goddamn say in that! Jesus Christ! How would you even… I mean, how, you- you want to infect yourself, as well? Is that it?”

Jon just stays silent. He hasn’t actually thought that far ahead. He’s sure it would come to him in the moment, though. The right solution.

“Or- Oh. _Oh._ ” Jon can see the exact second Martin’s mind supplies him with the picture of himself, snarling and feral, tearing open a completely willing Jon. Treating him like dinner, in the weirdest, most fucked up romantic joining in history. He’d never thought Martin would want him down to his bone marrow, but. He wouldn’t refuse. Martin wheeze-coughs and he looks suspiciously close to throwing up again. “You can’t be- You can’t seriously be thinking-“

“Look, it’s not…” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, what he could possibly say to make Martin understand this. This loyalty.

“It’s not _so bad?_ If you honestly think that, I’m. I, I just,” he stammers, slamming his fist down on the floor. Martin’s looking at him with more rage and anger than he’s seen in him in ages. Anger directed at Jon, at least. “I won’t _eat_ you, Jon!”

Jon idly wonders if… if maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Martin didn’t love him like _that_. It would certainly make sense, wouldn’t it? That certain kind of love is too overwhelming, too scary for a normal human to comprehend. He tries not to let it sadden him, that potential incongruence of their feelings. Martin loves him, however much or little, and that’s enough.

“You’ve got so much to live for, you-“

Jon honest to God starts laughing at that and then for a while he can’t stop. It sounds hysterical to his ears, absolutely comedic. He’s well aware he must look delusional, he might be. “Live? What else is there, Martin?”

“You could still save the world. Beat Elias.”

“The world? The world is burning. It’s- It’s _dead_ , Martin. All these weeks spent traveling through a wasteland, looking at human remains, battling monsters that _I_ created… You can’t seriously still think there’s anything left to save.”

Martin’s voice sounds horribly small. “We shouldn’t lose hope.” It’s barely above a whisper. “I’m not worth dying for.”

“I’m not… I haven’t lost hope.” He never had any to begin with. And Martin’s wrong. “I’m just. Tired. I’m tired.” _I’m so tired, Martin. I just want this to stop, more than anything. I want the pain to stop. I’m an observer of everyone’s brutal demise. I did this to them, to you, so it should only be reasonable that I pay for it. Why won’t you understand that?_

Martin says nothing at that, just lets his head hit the wall and closes his eyes, defeated. The black veins on his arms stand out like a bruise, like a tumour. Up close like this, it. It scares Jon, truthfully. The low thrumming of that poison, pumping steadily through his veins. How long until it reaches Martin’s heart? His brain? 2 days.

_2 days._

“And you’re wrong, by the way. You… You are worth it to me.”

Martin looks at him as if he’s just punched him, shell shocked. “What did you just say?”

Just by looking at him, okay, that might not have been his smartest choice to voice out loud. “I…” He starts, doesn’t finish.

Martin… God, he looks so angry. Livid. “Get out,” he punches out.

“W-What?” he asks dumbly, dragging himself to his feet just as Martin does. Walking away from him, distancing himself.

“You- You heard me. I don’t, _God_ , I can’t look at you right now, Jon. So just leave.”

“I don’t…” He doesn’t understand. But doesn’t he? Monstrous love. All consuming. Terrifying to the blind eye.

“I’m going- I’m going to go lie down for a bit. I just don’t want you near me right now. I don’t want _anyone_ near me. So please, leave me alone.”

“Are you… Are you sure?”

Martin looks at him exaggeratedly. Now it feels like Jon’s the one being punched in the gut. “Yes, blood hell! I want a _break!_ From all of this!” From him.

“Al-Alright…” Jon says, far from believing it. After Martin slams the bedroom door in his face, unsure of what to do. He… He could stay here, stay in the living room and wait for him, but. Isn’t that intrusive? He doesn’t want Martin to… feel pressured. Crowded.

If Martin wants him to leave, he’ll leave. Maybe he’ll… take a walk. So Jon grabs a knife from the kitchen, the sharpest one, just in case. He doesn’t have any keys for the apartment, it’s not theirs, after all, but he still closes the door as he goes. Hopes he’s doing the right thing, and not just fleeing like a coward and leaving Martin to fend for himself should danger arise.

The wind is cold outside in the middle of the Apocalypse.


	4. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon goes on a once-a-day government-approved walk.  
> (TW: slight gore? teeny tiny bit of it. Gun violence)

He’d never before given much thought to what the Apocalypse would actually look like, should it occur. He’s always… Well, during the Unknowing, he thought it’d be bizarre. Made of plastic, molded and shifted until even the tiniest, most mundane detail was unrecognizable anymore. A new world.

Instead it looks like… this. This wasteland he’s currently walking around in, just taking a stroll. Jon doesn’t want to walk far enough that he still wouldn’t be able to find his way back. Although he doubts he could ever get lost, not now – Martin’s wound is oozing a scent that is hard not to track, the taste of his fear heavy on Jon’s tongue. He did that.

He’s debating, debating whether he should have disclosed the truth sooner. Should have given Martin a choice, should have shown him the gun the others had left them. But he’s strong enough to admit that he’d been scared. Still is. He’s far too terrified Martin’s choice will clash with his own, that he’ll want to end this prematurely, just to be on the safe side. Even just the thought of that feels like a heavy stone has been put on Jon’s chest, digging in. He can hardly breathe thinking about it.

The streets are deserted and so are the houses, Jon doesn’t need to step foot inside them to know they’re just collecting dust now. If there were people here, he’d see their fear like smoke signs in the air. They’re still in London, though far, far away from the city centre and the havoc within. The centre… God, Jon dreads thinking about what Oxford Street would look like right now. He did that. He was responsible.

There’s a quiet voice in his head, agreeing with him. _But isn’t it better like this? Can’t you feel how quiet it is here?_ It soothes him, trying to put reason on the end of the world. It’s… It _is_ quiet. It’s blissfully quiet, even with the thought – no, the knowledge that something terrible and all-consuming swept this place up and spat it out, it’s hard not to find the beauty in it. The deserted brick houses. The street lamps. Bus signs that have been torn off and discarded. He’s nearing a small bridge, right there in front of a rotary with tire tracks around it. The planted flowers here still bloom, after everything. It’s a comforting thought.

He stops in the middle of that bridge, letting the cold air fall over him as he stares at the small river there. There are boats, though all of them look worse for wear, some of them have visible signs of struggle. It’s the first sign of blood he’s seen in this entire neighbourhood. There are ducks swimming in the low stream. When has he last seen ducks? He honestly can’t remember. They startle away from him.

Jon’s not far from their house, just in case Martin needs him – though, it’s not really _their_ house, is it? Not even the cottage in Scotland had been theirs, he feels like all of his time spent with Martin has been rented. It’s hard to think of himself as a real homeowner, even harder to think about it with _Martin_ , but. He doesn’t know, maybe they wouldn’t have been too shabby at it. So long as Jon wasn’t forced to cook. Now they will never know, will they?

He’s been daydreaming so much it’s embarrassing to say that the wet groaning behind him catches him off guard in a way he hasn’t been in quite a while. It’s not loud, normal ears wouldn’t have spotted it. But then again, he’s not normal. What greets Jon as he spins back around feels like a punch in the gut.

It’s… It used to be a person. It used to be someone, somewhere, belonging to a family maybe, a community. It used to have aspirations. Now it just looks like death warmed over.

The infected person, something that was once a man, looks at him curiously. It’s – _He’s_ alone. He’s all alone. That’s curious, he’s never once seen any knowledge of them being loners, they always tend to travel in packs. For security and certainty of a more efficient kill if nothing else. The man standing in front of him has thick, black veins protruding out of his neck, his chest, everywhere. His eyes are pitch black as well, but they regard him almost with … curiosity. Jon exhales a shaky breath, scared despite himself.

What he’s come to find out these past few weeks has been this: Now that’s he’s brought about the Apocalypse, forcibly elected The Eye ruler, it’s almost as if he’s immune to any monster attacks. Once, he’d been inside a hive of thriving worms, stood right in the middle of it, and they’d been scrambling away from him almost in fear. As if he, of all beings in this world, was taboo. It’s a hysterical idea, most likely a weak thank you from his patron for releasing the fears. Being indestructible should make him feel more powerful, should feel reassuring at least, but instead, all it does is remind him that he’s at fault for all of it. Not even any avatars had tried scarring him again – and he’d met a few, reconnected with some. When he’d met Jude Perry again, _she_ had been the one running for her life. Strange times.

This… thing, though. This former person. He’s not sure it has retained enough intelligence to see him as anything else but another food source, but. It can’t hurt to try.

“You’re alone,” he breathes out, not daring to look at their surroundings. For now the thing is still, but he knows how fast these beings can be. He’s felt them attach themselves to Martin’s flesh within seconds. “Why are you alone?”

Again with that strange wet wheeze, like it – _he_ is struggling to breathe. This is a he. If he convinces himself of that enough, maybe it will stop being quite as nerve-wracking. Maybe he… Maybe he’s still in there somewhere. However small.

“Do you understand me?” The infected just cocks his head to the side, revealing a long gash on his neck. He’s been hunted before but escaped. Jon points towards his own neck, at the similar scar there, yells into the space between them: “Did that hurt? Mine hurt.”

What he wants to say instead is… A little more complicated than that. He wants the thing to talk back. So far, except for the wheeze and occasional soft grunt, nothing.

_Who were you?_

The answer is slapped into his mind with brute force, even though that question had only been metaphorical: Homeless. This used to be a homeless man, in his forties, living in shelters and under bridges for most of his adult life. A former alcoholic, divorced two times, children with –

“I, I don’t want to know this,” he mutters out in between his clenched teeth. It’s hard to think when the Eye is assaulting him with information like this. “I don’t need to know this.” _I don’t want to have to think of his children if he – he attacks me. And I have to fight back._

The emotion Jon can feel in his head is unmistakable irritation. The Eye is angry with him. If it were human, Jon thinks it might have been pouting.

The man snarls, limping his way over. It’s only now that Jon notices that the man’s left leg is missing, presumably shot off. So is half the side of his face, facial expression obscured by all that gore. It. It looks like the remnants of a nasty fight. A survivor. Jon begrudgingly draws his knife.

“If… If you leave now, I won’t have to hurt you,” he pleads. He really, really doesn’t want to kill. Not again. “We’ll just call it even.” The man just snarls, showcasing his rotten teeth. How much gore is lodged in between those teeth, nestling in that stomach? How many people did this… this person eat?

“Please… Please say something. Anything.”

“Jon?” He’s so surprised to be spoken to by name that he snaps his head to the side in seconds. He knows that voice.

It’s Martin. Martin, wearing a shirt that looks suspiciously like Jon’s, eyes red-rimmed but not significantly less than before. He looks tired. He looks worried. He’s also holding a gun.

“Ma-Martin, how did you…?” Jon doesn’t finish that answer. _How did you find the gun? How did you find me?_

Martin swallows, drawing his weapon and holding it upright with a less shaky hand than Jon would have thought. “I was scared,” he whispers, though Jon can hear him just fine. Walking slowly towards Jon, trying to shield him. “You weren’t at home. Found this in the kitchen cabinet.”

The infected man snarls at him, long and angry. Martin just holds the gun steadier, breathing in and out rhythmically. Is he… Has he done this before?

“Martin…” _Don’t. Don’t attract its attention._ Jon’s head is a swarm full of worries, for himself, for Martin. Mostly for Martin. How bad would a second bite be?

Turns out, he needn’t have bothered. The infected person before them, this man, takes one look at Martin, at his very visible wound, and _drools_. He actually drools on the concrete, trying to form words and sentences with a rotten tongue and decaying vocal cords. It’s… He looks almost happy. Monsters always recognize their own, Jon thinks with startling clarity. Martin is so far along now that he… that he’s. He’s been claimed. That realization sits in Jon’s stomach heavy like stone. He wants to cry.

What’s worse, he can see the exact second Martin pierces the clues together as well. It’s edged into his face, overcoming him all at once. His aim’s growing shaky. Martin whimpers wide-eyed, only a little, only for a moment. But… Jon will think about that moment for a long time.

It happens fast after that. The infected man does another one of those happy chirps, spilling blood over the street and limping towards him, towards Martin. Martin’s breathing grows faster, more laboured, all the colour drained out of his face.

Jon starts saying “Martin, it’s alright…” just as he hears the deafening noise of a trigger being pulled. He flinches, his ears are ringing. He thinks he can almost hear another one of those soft cries, though he’s not sure if it’s coming from the Zombie or Martin.

The Zombie screams in pain, the sound altogether too human. Monsters always sound like their former selves taking their final breaths, giving the impression that there’s more soul in there than what meets the eye. Jon can smell the fear seeping out of the creature, mingling with their own. That one feels human, as well. The collective of it toiling in the air is almost making Jon dizzy with excitement.

That’s when Martin fires again.


	5. Stage 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin spend their time doing quarantine activities. It all goes semi-okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some more angst on TMA Thursday.  
> I don't care what Jonny Sims writes, they drink coffee in my story. Caffeine, baby.

The sound of the tap running is the only thing penetrating the oppressive silence in the room. They’re in the bathroom, Martin is- Martin is sat atop the closed toilet lid. There are splatters of gore littered all over him, his face, his shirt. Jon doesn’t look much better. They were both too close to it when it happened.

Martin hasn’t said a word since he’s fired. That doesn’t sit well with Jon, but he lets him keep his silence. He’d seen the exact moment the shock stopped and dissociation settled in, replaced fear with nothingness. Classic signs of a traumatic event. Fight, flight or freeze. In the end, they’d done all three, had just left the carcass there on the bridge and ran back towards their house. After Martin had stopped sobbing. It’s almost as if his tears have run dry.

Jon sits on the marble edge of the tub and daps his washcloth into the cold water from the tab. It’s a marvel the water’s still running after Apocalypse. He… He feels nervous. He’s never been any good at providing comfort, least of all to the people he loves. It’s one of the reasons why his relationships, platonic or otherwise, never really lasted long enough. He’s willing to try for Martin, though.

“Martin?” he starts, ripping him out of his haze. He blinks at him, seemingly not understand where or who he is. “I’m. I’m going to wash the blood off now, alright? Don’t be frightened.”

Martin just stares at him, incomprehensible. “Jon…?” It sounds as if he’s just woken up. Like he’s far away.

“Yes. I’m… I’m here.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Martin sobs, taking hold of Jon’s wrists and clutching on for dear life. As if he could disappear any second. “I, I couldn’t see you.”

“I’m right here.” And really, what’s that worth, in the grand scheme of things? Nothing. Less than nothing. Still, it seems to reassure Martin. Once again Jon’s reminded of that terrible time Martin spent in the Lonely, the still lasting effect of it. One he has to deal with for his… for a while. Jon tries to smile in encouragement. “Can you… Can you stop holding my hand?” They both look down, down at Jon’s hand, the dripping wet cloth clutched. Martin exhales and lets go almost immediately. He doesn’t stop holding his other hand, though.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s alright… If you don’t want me to do this, I can…” He doesn’t imagine Martin wants to do it himself, though.

Martin just shakes his head weakly, letting his head hit the wall with a sigh. “No, no, it’s fine. Go ahead.”

Jon hesitates only for a second. This time when he lets the washcloth touch Martin’s cheek, he doesn’t flinch away. Just closes his eyes. Small victories. Jon tries to do it gently as a mother would most likely, but his hands are shaky and unsteady and some of the black blood already crusted. Martin just scrunches up his nose when he starts scrubbing at some parts of his skin. Jon apologizes yet again, though he knows Martin doesn’t mind.

The procedure is strangely intimate. He feels as if the closest the two of them have gotten, the biggest intimacy they’ve shared. And it took Martin… Martin killing someone for him to make it happen.

Jon swallows. “Martin… Why did you go looking for me?”

Martin opens his eyes slightly, watching Jon’s hand movements. He starts caressing the wrist he’s still gripping, slides his hand down lower so they can hold hands in earnest. That simple gesture makes Jon grow hot in a weird sort of shame. Does he deserve the comfort, truly? “You weren’t here,” Martin just says matter-of-factly. “I told you… I, I might have been angry, but I …” He sighs. “I just panicked.” That statement rings true for the whole encounter, Jon thinks.

“I’m sorry,” Jon tries again because he has nothing else to give.

Martin just shakes his head as Jon dips the cloth back in the water that’s turning pink. “You keep apologizing. Jon, I need you to know something: You didn’t infect me. _You_ didn’t. Elias did.”

“But-“ _But he did it because of me. Because of what you mean to me._

Martin just cuts off his attempt at self-loathing. “I was only angry with you before, because… Because you took it upon yourself to decide my fate for me. And yours.”

“I know, I-“

“It’s alright, Jon. You don’t need to apologize again. I’m still angry, I don’t think I can stop, but…” A squeeze of his hand. “Not at you. Never at you.”

Jon just stares at him, at the olive branch given to him. He doesn’t think he deserves it. “But… why not?”

“You might be all-knowing, but you’re not all-powerful,” Martin says, smiling sadly at him. “When will you stop shouldering on the guilt for things you had no control over? We knew the risks. _I_ knew them.”

“Why are you… Why are you so calm about this?” _Why aren’t you hitting me, screaming bloody murder? Anything?_

“Because if I don’t…” Martin stops at that, blinking furiously and willing the tears to go away. “Because if I don’t, I’m scared that I might break.” He laughs weakly. “Rationalization. And I did always know it would end like this, didn’t I? Knew it for a while now. It’s inevitable.”

“It shouldn’t,” Jon replies fiercely. “It, it shouldn’t. Not you.”

“You’re right. But there’s no point in mourning over it now. We don’t have…” Martin cuts himself off, though Jon can hear the _‘We don’t have enough time’_ all the same. He just lets his head connect back with the wall, exhaling and inhaling forcefully. He’s trying not to panic, trying to rationalize all of this. Trying to make peace with his demise. For him, most likely.

Jon loves him so much at that moment it’s hard to get any words out, his feelings thick and heavy, crawling up his throat, choking him. He tries, though the words coming out of his mouth are far from what he wants to say: “Why did you pull the trigger?”

Martin just looks at him. “You spend all this time trying to protect me, didn’t you stop to think that I wouldn’t do the same for you? That I _have_ been doing the same?” Peter Lukas. The Lonely. Way before that, Jane Prentiss. All of it. God, how could Jon have been so stupid?

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know anything. So instead he just cups Martin’s face, wet cloth and all, and kisses him. Martin just does a cute noise of surprise in response, though he lets himself be kissed. It’s barely anything, just Jon pressing his lips into Martin’s in a desperate attempt to make him understand, to reverse any of this from happening. It’s almost a melancholic sort of gesture. It ends way too soon for either of them.

“Jon…,” Martin whispers in between the space of their mouths. “Can you promise me something?”

He wants to nod, wants to reply with _‘anything’_ , wants to give Martin whatever he needs. But he has the sinking feeling that he knows where this is going, what territory they’re about to breach. And Jon doesn’t think he can offer him that.

“I… I don’t think…” _Don’t ask this of me. Please._

“At least try? Try to find the others, try…”

“Martin, you- You can’t-“ He’s struggling for the words, barely able to make them leave his mouth. His breathing starts going quicker. _You can’t expect this of me._

“I know, I’m sorry,” Martin says, all understanding and the scenario is so hysterical Jon has no choice but to laugh. Here he is, denying a dying man his last wish, and _Martin’s_ the one apologizing. The one comforting him. Any other sensible person would say _yes_ , would say, _of course, I love you, I will respect your wish._ The thing is, Jon loves him. Which is exactly why he can’t.

The thought of… of leaving here, after all this is over, of just letting Martin’s – letting him _decay_ here like some sort of… Like he’s nothing more than that, sad but inevitable. And then Jon moving on, finding the others, plotting his revenge, it… it seems incomprehensible. It’s. His mind is reeling at the thought.

What will other survivors think of him when they break in here, seeing the remains of Jon’s last humanity just lying there, shot in the head? Will they even care? Or will no one… no one see Martin after this. Will this be his final resting place and Jon his gravedigger? It’s grotesque, all of it.

“I… I just, I- I, No, y-you…”

“It’s alright,” Martin just stops him in between his panic. “I’m not. I’m not expecting an answer now, just try to… Just think about it.”

There’s nothing to think about, truthfully. Nothing that hasn’t been swimming around in Jon’s head for days, anxieties, worst-case scenarios, the thought of an After. He can’t think of anything after this, he just… He can’t. He’s not prepared to deal with a world in which Martin is no longer in.

The voice in the back of his head, the one that’s always there, tells him he might not have a choice. Because, like it or not, the Eye isn’t done with him yet. It has yet to demand its last sacrifice of him if it ever will.

* * *

“Aren’t you scared?” Jon asks him, watching Martin wash the last pieces of today’s incident down the drain as the sky turns dark behind them. He’s not sure what time it is, the clock’s stopped working long ago.

“Jon…” An exhale. “I’m always scared.” Jon can sense a _‘yes’_ when he hears it. For nothing if not the shakiness of Martin’s voice.

“Me… Me too.”

* * *

They end up feeding George with oats. He doesn’t seem to mind, from the looks of his food bowl he’d been just fine gnawing on the plastic as a last resort. Jon wonders idly how much of the chaos this little creature had witnessed, or even realized. How many pets were currently holed up somewhere, howling and meowing after their owner who’d been torn to shreds? He could find out if he wanted to. Animal fear is just as real as human’s if a little less potent. He doesn’t want to know, though.

They’ve taken to the living room, sitting down opposite sites of the filthy rug, far too much apart for Jon’s liking. They’re… They’re doing a jigsaw puzzle. Martin had found it, in the TV low board, long forgotten. (“Do you want to play it?” “Would I like to spend my last days doing a jigsaw with you?” A sigh. “Sure. Sure, why not.”) Jon doesn’t – He doesn’t exactly understand Martin’s intense need for this sort of amusement, why _jigsaws_ of all things. But he doesn’t question it. He won’t question it.

This puzzle is one of a beautiful landscape, not unlike ones they’d seen on walks in Scotland. God. How long ago all of it seems now like it happened years ago instead of months. They’re in a whole new world now. And the puzzle is almost halfway finished.

Martin had insisted they change their clothes, just to get rid of any – any remnants of before, to start fresh. Which had probably been a smart choice, Jon doesn’t want Martin to get. Reminded of his fate. He knows it’s futile, knows it’s childish and more sticking their heads in the sand than actually tackling the doom lurking their way, but for now? They’re doing a jigsaw puzzle together.

Martin is wearing a rosé coloured shirt with ‘THINK PINK’ on it, pointedly long-sleeved. It all feels weirdly domestic. His hair keeps falling into his face from time to time, illuminating his eyes, that Jon has no choice but to stare. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Jon…?”

He blinks himself out of it. “S-Sorry,” Jon mutters, trying to get his head back into this. Into this landscape. Mindlessly, without even giving it a little thought, he picks up a stray piece and tries to find its place in the art piece. It’s blue. It should…

He finds its place almost immediately.

Martin stares at him incredulously. “How did you –“ He murmurs something under his breath, clearly amused. Jon catches it, though.

“I didn’t, I didn’t _cheat_.” Is it even possible to _cheat_ doing a jigsaw puzzle? During the Apocalypse, maybe. Normal rules of games don’t apply anymore.

Martin just gives him one of those Looks. “MhhhhMmm.”

“I didn’t!”

“Who knows, maybe one of your _eyes_ told you-“

“Oh, come _on_ , you _know_ it doesn’t work like that!” He’s only half offended. Maybe not even that.

“Hmm.” Martin yawns, an honest one not just for show, and the fact alone makes Jon feel weird. He’d always considered them a show of intimacy, to showcase to another one’s fatigue. Letting one’s guard down. It might be completely nonsensical, he’s well aware, but still. “Sure, Jon.” He slurs the last word like he can barely keep himself upright. It shouldn’t be necessary for Martin, for any human really, to feel tired during the end times. Like he’d said, whoever is ruling their realm now doesn’t need them to sleep, and if so, only long enough to experience the pure terror of waking up from a nightmare only to be reminded that you’re living in one. It feels reassuring that Martin, even after all of this, or his body at least, still sticks to his normal sleep schedule.

There are ugly ideas in his head though, theories about whether fatigue can be caused by an overactive disorder wreaking havoc on the body. Tar being pumped through his veins. He tries not to dwell on them, but it’s hard. Everything Martin does feels like a reminder of the time they’re running out of.

“Are you… Would you like to go to sleep?” he hesitantly asks, voice barely above a whisper. The floor is starting to get uncomfortable now, crouched down like this.

Martin’s head snaps back almost immediately, fighting the sleep out of his eyes. “N-No.” There’s a certain… panic in that one word. It makes Jon wonder…

“I don’t – I don’t _mind_ , you know.” He doesn’t, he truly doesn’t. Just because Jon is refused the refuge of sleep doesn’t mean Martin should stop in a show of solidarity.

“ _I_ mind!” Martin punches out, his loud voice ringing around the empty apartment. He looks desperate, swinging his hands in the air frantically and then letting them drop with a defeated sigh. “I… I mind. I mind, Jon. God, I can’t- I can’t miss it. I won’t.”

Jon blinks. “Miss what?”

Martin stares at him fiercely. Desperately. “You.”

It strikes him then, a thought he hadn’t considered before: This is a mutual mourning process. While Jon is trying to prepare for the inevitability of saying goodbye to Martin, so does Martin. How selfish has he been? Panicking, overthinking, making plans. What had been his stone number one? _Don’t leave Martin._ But could he even follow him, wherever he went? Would he be able to keep his promise, or would he fail the ones he loves, just like he always does? (Is he… Is he human enough for the idea of heaven or hell to even still apply to him?)

“Martin-“

He cuts him off with a waving of his hand as if he can hear the pity oozing from that single word. “Don’t- I’m not.” He inhales forcefully, trying to reign in his emotions. “It’s not- My life. I don’t want to miss out on my life, no matter how little…” Martin cuts himself off as if the thought of it ending is just too much for him to comprehend. _(Not ending,_ a sinister voice in his head says. _Changing. Reborn.)_ There are tears in his eyes, and Jon can feel the helplessness and fear thick in the air even without his new powers.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon makes his way towards Martin, completely disregarding the puzzle. He wants to, _needs_ to touch him. The need to hold feels stronger than hunger or thirst ever felt. As soon as tentative fingers touch Martin’s arm, trying for his open hands in his lap, it’s like there’s a current running through him. Like a dam breaking. Martin inhales shakily, exhales. Once, twice.

It occurs to Jon then, what had been so strange before: this. The shocking absence. Before, Martin had always tried to change the subject towards how _Jon_ felt, how _he_ was handling the situation. Jon isn’t the one with a bite mark on his arm. It must be a coping mechanism, this deflecting of his own needs and fears and wants. How often had Jon let it slip unremarked?

“Martin…”

“I don’t- I don’t want to die,” Martin whispers, eyes still looking at his own hands, at Jon’s fingers weaving through his’, as if they hold the answer. Searching for… something. “I really, really don’t. Jon…” Martin looks up at him, looks up at him through his tears. There’s something hot lodging itself in Jon’s throat at the sight, like a stone. It travels down, down, until it lands on his heart with a heavy noise.

“I…” Jon doesn’t know what to do, what to say, so instead, he just takes a firmer hold on the freckled hands intertwined with his. “I know.”

“I don’t want to die, I- I didn’t want _Tim_ to die, I didn’t-“ That old name feels like a stab in the heart, even now. Especially now. Martin’s breath is growing more laboured, faster. Working himself into a frenzy. “I didn’t want Sasha to- to. I, I didn’t… I _killed_ someone-”

“You mustn’t-“

Martin laughs wetly, cutting him off halfway. The reassurance seems futile anyways. “I mean, what- what life did I lead, huh? What have I got to show for myself?”

_Everything_ , he wants to say. _You changed everything._ He stays silent. Martin doesn’t seem to expect him to answer.

“I spent barely – barely any time on this Earth and I. I never even went to Paris, for fuck’s sake! I’ve always dreamt of going!” _Together_ is the unspoken end of that sentence. _With someone. With you._

“You wanted to go to Paris?” This is news to him, though it really shouldn’t have been.

“It- Never mind. I just… No.” He exhales, trying to get himself back together. Trying to reign the anger back in. His fists are still clenched impossibly tight. “No, I’m not tired. I don’t want to sleep and I’m so… I’m _so._ Angry.”

_I know, and I did this to you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._

He can’t… At some point, those words just ring false. How many more times should he apologize, for it to mean nothing? Martin is still – infected. They’ve still only got 2 more days left, maybe 3 if they’re lucky. They’re still trapped. So instead he falls silent, holding Martin’s hand. He’s running hot, hotter than before. _He’s deteriorating._ The thought feels like a punch in the gut. He knows what follows.

“Do you…” Jon asks, after a few heavy minutes of silence. Martin’s stopped crying by now, which he isn’t sure is a good thing because now he just – stares. “Do you want me to see if, if there’s… coffee?”

Martin makes a vague noise of affirmation, not even raising his head. It reminds Jon a little of dissociation, that vacant stare. Remnants of the Lonely. To feel your emotions so strongly, like a wound, that the best choice of action is to shut off. Jon squeezes Martin’s hand one last time before he scrambles up, heading towards the kitchen.

Jon doesn’t even know if caffeine would help with the – with staying awake. He imagines it might. He can’t fathom the Apocalypse stocking up on any energy drinks. And the family – they’d used to drink coffee, at least. He’d seen the coffee machine discarded in the corner. So. It certainly couldn’t worsen their situation.

* * *

Martin gulps down the beverage with shocking enthusiasm almost as soon as Jon hands him the mug. It must burn his mouth, fresh out of the machine like that, and yet – Like Martin’d said, he didn’t want to fall asleep. So they wouldn’t. He’s almost glad the Eye had extinguished his own need for sleep – one less problem to deal with.

“Thank you,” Martin says and means it, his smile as blinding as the sun to Jon. Such a small gesture, to make someone coffee, and yet it makes him happy to think he could still do something to lessen Martin’s anxiety. Even if they’d run out of teabags. Even if his subconscious couldn’t help but pick up on the subtle differences on Martin’s skin. There’s a certain grey shine to it.

There’s a black vein protruding out of Martin’s neck. Jon’s eyes supply him with a mental image, multiple, of Martin lying on the floor and wheezing wetly. Crawling his way towards Jon’s feet. He looks away.

“What do you… What do you want to do?” He asks, fumbling with his sleeve, feeling awkward. There’s no protocol for this, no knowledge from the Eye that could help him fill Martin’s – these next 2 days as best as possible. ( _If you even have 2 days,_ the traitor in his head whispers. _Look at his neck. How long until he will be hungry? What will you do then?)_

“We could… We’ll do anything you, you want.”

Martin smiles wickedly at him. “Anything?”

Jon’s blush is petrifying crimson. His face feels warm. He’s, he’s not- well, he’s not _opposed_. Not with Martin. He usually is, the hassle of intimacy is just – just not something he finds himself drawn to. Ever. But, well… if this is to be their last – “If, if you wanted to…”

Martin backtracks almost immediately, setting the mug down on the couch table and strutting over to grab Jon’s hand. “ _God_ , no, I would never – I wouldn’t force you to, I. I mean,” he’s stuttering. “Jon, it was a _joke_.”

Something about the way he’d pronounced that unsettles him. (Of course, it’s a good thing that, that Martin respects his boundaries. Whatever those may be now. Still.) “Oh.”

“Not that – I don’t mean that as a definite _no_ ,” Martin reprimands softly. His blush has engulfed almost his entire head, the freckles stand out sharply. “Just… I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Let’s just… take it slow. We have –“ He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. Jon can hear the _‘time’_ that was meant to accompany that just fine, though. They don’t, though, do they? They _don’t_ have time. If they ever did.

“Martin,” he asks, just to break that depressing silence. He draws closer toward Martin’s warmth. He’s always so _warm_ , and even more so now. _(Don’t think about why.)_ “What would you like to do?”

Martin exhales shakily, takes his other hand as well. “How about a dance?”

And after all, how could Jon refuse? (He wants to, god, he’s not good at this, has two left feet that never seem to be under his control while dancing, but – the vulnerability with which he’d asked. He’ll allow it.)

So that’s how they find themselves in the middle of the room, intertwined. They’ve discarded the puzzle, no use in finishing it, and George is back in his old room. The couch table’s been shifted to the left end of the room. Martin’s managed to find a suitable CD and work the familiarly ancient disc player, however long it took. Neither of them knows the tune, it’s an instrumental piece, but it’s slow enough to pass for something akin to a waltz. Jon’s never danced the waltz before. Jon’s never danced anything. It’s pitch black outside.

“I don’t….” Jon confesses quietly when Martin places his palm on the small of his back, reassuring. It sends chills of anxiety down his spine instead. “I don’t know how to do this.” _This_ encompasses a whole lot more than just dancing. Martin seems to understand that.

He smiles. “It’s alright,” he reassures. “I used to dance in high school. Well, I –“ He snorts softly. “I took one course. One. In our school’s gymnasium. It reeked of socks the entire time.” The music’s well started by now, something soft and simple. Pianos. (It’s decidedly quiet because Jon still can’t bear himself to make more noise than they have to, what with – with the carnage outside. He doesn’t want another stray to follow them.) He lets himself be swayed to the music, though he barely feels it. It’s glorified hugging, isn’t it.

“Did you step on anyone’s toes?” he asks into the minimal space between them, looking up. God, Martin is so _tall_. Jon’s hairline barely tickles Martin’s cheek, but Jon knows enough about himself to know that if he attempted to do this while on his tippy toes he _will_ fall on his arse. And he doesn’t want to embarrass himself, not now.

Martin’s black vein is huge from this position though. Menacing. There’s no way to look but up. And while his neck might be the depressing image of death, his eyes are bright and alive. And that’s enough for now.

“I did,” Martin whispers, almost proudly. “I dented a few poor girl’s toes, though none of them gave me any grief for it.”

Martin whips them around them, almost a little too abruptly for Jon’s liking. His vision is spinning as his body goes stiff with the fear of the unknown dangers of the Waltz. “I might,” he warns, holding onto Martin’s shoulder for dear life. “I won’t be so nice if you let me fall.” A lie, of course – Martin could break his foot and he still wouldn’t complain, still wouldn’t stop. It’s all bark.

Martin just laughs, though he slows down a little. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The tone changes after that, it’s slower for one. But Martin finds his footing, does a quick little choreography with his feet that Jon struggles to keep up with. It’s just 3 damn steps, damn it, and yet to Jon, it’s more terrifying than an entire room full of spiders. But it’s also nice, being this close to someone. Smelling their perfume, the shower gel they’d used. Their bellies keep awkwardly colliding and Jon can tell Martin is self-conscious about it, though he really needn’t be. It’s not his fault Jon’s too skinny.

Martin’s eyes rarely stray from his face, though sometimes he’ll catch him looking down at the nape of Jon’s neck. The ugly part in him thinks of extending his neck, showcasing the veins there. The flesh. Thinks about what it would feel like to have Martin’s teeth burrow down in the tender meat there. Kissing that could descend into biting. Is he feeling it already, that deep-seated hunger, or is he suppressing it? Jon can tell it’s the latter, though he’s not aware of how much. Martin must not even realize he’s doing it, holding himself back (for now).

_He’s lusting for you. He wants to eat you. If not now, then sooner rather than later._

_I know. I’d let him._

_How long until his face no longer conveys any of the love you so desperately crave but instead looks at you as if you are nothing more than a piece of meat? 2 days was one day ago._

Any reasonable entity inside his mind, anyone else, and he’s sure they would tell him to leave. To flee while he still can. Not the Eye though, oh no. It wants him to _watch_ , every step, every miserable little change it wants documented. When will he ever again have a chance to watch a transformation this close? Never, if he has anything to say about it.

He wants to hate it for that thought, that impulse in his mind, but it’s a devil he knows well by now. After all, Gods can’t change their nature. And neither can he, so they’re at a crossroads. He’s trying to make peace with the invasive voice in his head, with the intrusive thoughts that sound like him if only slightly distorted.

“Why … Why this?” Jon asks to occupy his mind with something else. “Out of all the activities we could be – out of all of them.”

Martin sighs. “I don’t care what we do. Hell, it wouldn’t bother me if we did _office work_ together. Or recorded statements. I just…” He doesn’t finish that sentence, trailing off. His grip on Jon grows tighter though, and he understands. So long as they do it together, Martin is fine with anything. That certainly helps Jon in feeling less self-conscious, less like he has to put on this grand show. He just has to be here. He just – just has to hold Martin’s hand. He can do that.

“I hate to break it to you, but I think filing work might be obsolete now. I’m fairly certain we ran out of printing ink and staplers right before the Apocalypse ended and now… I just, I forgot to restock them.” _I was too occupied with trying to find you and Peter Lukas._

Martin laughs warmly and the sound carries on through Jon like another wave of music. “Oh, oh _no_. How are we supposed to, to file cases now? This is a disaster.”

Jon almost wants to retort with a witty reply about Elias, about how their boss surely wouldn’t mind that too much _now_ , but the irony falls flat. That’s still an open wound. So he stays silent, letting Martin pick the topic of conversation as well as the pace of their dance. And he does so enthusiastically.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, shrugging lightly, his expression almost shy – if that is even possible now, them being as close as they are. “In school, we used to always… We got assigned to each other, boys and girls. One boy and one girl, that was it. And well, I’d – I mean, I’d never really before danced with anyone I _wanted_ to dance with. Proper dancing etiquette. You know?” Oh. “And I always figured it might be nice to, to try this with someone…” Martin’s visibly struggling for words.

“… Male?” Jon supplies, because he has no idea. He doesn’t know Martin’s preference, all he knows is that Martin likes _him_ , which is a miracle in and of itself.

“… With someone I want to dance with. A dance partner I … care about.” That answer warms something in Jon, lets pleasant heat rise his entire body. He knows Martin cares about him, of course, he knows, but it’s. It’s just nice to be reminded, that’s all. It feels like he’s been picked, like out of all the lads in the world he’s the first (and last) one Martin’s danced the waltz with. It’s silly, Jon’s well aware of that.

“Hmmm,” Jon murmurs. Nonchalant noises of affirmation are his go-to when it comes to being overcome with slightly uncomfortable emotions. “You’d choose that over the lovely ladies you were assigned to?”

“Any day. Besides, it’s not like I’ve kept in touch with them. No way to ring them up and arrange another course. I couldn’t ask if I wanted to.” Martin hastily adds: “Not that I – Not that I would prefer that.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’m _serious_!” Martin’s offense is only half genuine. Still, it’s nice to needle him on a bit. Almost makes it feel like this is normal.

Jon sighs dramatically, detangling himself slightly. “Well, if you’d rather I’d left you and your professional dancing feet alone, I can –“

Martin scoffs. “Oh, shut _up_ , you –“ He doesn’t finish that sentence either, chooses instead to pull his unwilling partner back towards himself and to seal Jon’s running mouth with his own. That shuts him up, alright. It always does.

They don’t stop kissing for a while after that, and it feels both new and not. Like they’ve been doing this, this try at domesticity, for far longer than Scotland. They even make it to the bedroom, though not without a quite frankly awkward talk of boundaries and what not. It’s nice, to be talked to like his anatomy is precious, but Martin needn’t have bothered. Because while Jon’s back hitting the bedsheets does invoke some fear in him, Martin’s body weight on top of him feels peaceful. Jon’s entire body goes slack, as if his limbs are saying “Oh, we like this” (in a more naïve sense). Normally, he’d freak out by now, would stutter and stammer out some excuse why they shouldn’t. It’s not even wrong half of the time, his libido is a mythical creature he encounters maybe once every second full moon. And even if he were… more into it, there’s always the factor of intimacy involved that scares the crap out of him. This… It comes with the possibility of hurt. With subsequent awkwardness, with shy questions asking him why he wasn’t more enthusiastic, with invasive questions. Normally, being pinned under someone else’s body like this makes Jon want to run more than wanting to have sex. It’s just what it is.

There’s a certain desperation here though, a “I don’t want this to stop, please don’t let this stop”. Throwing the blanket over them in hopes that it’ll keep the inevitable out, that it’ll keep them safe. Both of them can feel it, that fear, and neither Jon nor Martin knows who started it. They’re intertwined much more than their physical bodies.

So yes, while Jon’s not normally a sexually active person, he’s also never been in this predicament before. And not with – not with Martin, who somehow despite everything makes him feel calm, makes him feel composed even when Martin starts taking his shirt off (those veins, they’re always there, Jon can always _see_ , even behind his closed eyelids). Jon’s follows soon after, he’s so _cold –_ and there’s nothing he wants more right now than to bask in Martin’s body heat.

It’s not… It’s barely anything really, it’s pathetically fragile and short. A handful of warm touches covering Jon’s skin, his entire body, panted breaths. Kissing that feels like it’s meant to convey everything and nothing.

There’s a part of him that wants to apologize, for the… for skipping the main event. But something about Martin, about the emotions he can almost feel radiating off him, that makes all those dumb excuses obsolete. Martin just accepts him. And hmmm, that’s a new feeling, isn’t it.

After, when they just lie there, Martin’s self-conscious, he can tell. He keeps repositioning himself, so his full weight doesn’t bear down on Jon so much, but Jon just hugs him closer in response, nestles his neck. It feels like his personal heavy blanket. (“Are, are you fine? Is this okay?” “ _Yes_ , Martin, for the last time, you are _not_ crushing me!” “Are you-“ _“Yes”_ “Okay, just checking.”)

Jon thinks he could be buried forever under Martin and he’d be fine. More than fine.

“Martin?” he whispers, with his left cheek pressed into Martin’s neck. Fingers in his hair and massaging his scalp. Martin just hums into response, completely boneless. The “I love you” Jon pushes out after that sounds suspiciously close to an “I’m sorry”, tinged with melancholy. (Why can’t he seem to say it any other way these days? Martin deserves a happy “I love you”, a silly one. Jokes.)

He can feel Martin tensing all over like he’s said something bad. Like he broke the moment. Jon has half the idea to apologize when he hears something that sounds suspiciously like soft sniffling. The pillow is wet, but Martin just presses his face into it as if it doesn’t matter.

“Shut – Shut up,” he wobbles out from in between the pillow. It’s not meant as a rejection though, Jon can feel the warmth there. The whole situation reminds Jon of the last time they laid like this; hands intertwined instead of their bodies, Jon’s lies separating them. (Martin’s promise, “I’m not going anywhere”. He can’t promise that now, can he?)

“Let’s just try to, try to sleep, alright?” Martin muffles into the pillow.

“Yes.” Jon tenderly kisses the nearest vein he can find, which just so happens to be a black one. Jon has the wild thought that maybe he should smell bodily decay, something, anything, but there’s nothing. It feels the same on his lips, like nothing’s changed. Maybe it hasn’t.

* * *

(Martin starts vomiting up black goo the next morning.)


End file.
